I was 10 years old when my life stopped.
I was 10 years old, when a monster took residence in my head.
I was 10, when everything went to shit.
I was 11 years old when I first thought I was fat.
I was 11 years old, when I decided to starve myself.
I was 11, when I nearly died.
I was 12 years old when I got discharged.
I was 12 years old, when they said I was on my way to recovery.
I was 12, and believed everything was going to be okay.
I was wrong.
I was 13 years old when I saw again, how fat I was.
I was 13 years old, when I wanted to die for the first time.
I was 13, when I became depressed.
I was 14 years old when I was readmitted.
I was 14 years old, when I saw blood and tears mix for the first time.
I was 14, when I knew I was in deep.
I was 15 years old when I was discharged again.
I was 15 years old, when I realized how much I hated myself.
I was 15, when I stopped believing in recovery.
I was 16 years old when I was readmitted, again.
I was 16 years old, when I lost all hope for myself, my future, my life, everything.
I was 16, but I was not 16.
My life had frozen at 10.
I am still that 10 year old, wishing none of this had happened.
I am still 10, waiting for the monster to leave, so I can live.
I hate being the ugly one in the group.
I hate being the fat one in the group.
I hate being the dumb one in the group.
I hate being butt of the joke.
I hate being made fun of by the people I’m supposed to call my best friends.
I hate being everyone’s last choice.
I hate being the useless one in the group.
I hate being the worst one in the group.